No Poems About Groundhogs

Hope is the thing with feathers, said Emily Dickinson, and while it certainly created a line that would live for decades, I have realized my hope arrives every year in far more pedestrian form, say buck teeth and a fat backside.

January is a month where I dream of the tropics, and hang on till the end.  If it wasn't for my sister and Dr. King, I'd say there isn't a bright spot in the entire freaking lunar cycle.

But on February 2nd, every year I feel hope rising.  I know the tradition is stupid and pagan, and Phil almost never predicts correctly.  But for some incredible reason, on Groundhog Day life may look cold and bleak, but I know the world really is turning on its axis.  And with just a few more spins it will resume its bow to the sun and I will once again feel the kiss of the heavens on my cheek instead of a dope slap on the back of my head when I leave the house.

After all, there's just something about a month that holds Cupid, Abraham Lincoln, the countdown to  Easter, a celebration of Esther, the Father of our Country, and one lovable rodent, all in 28 (or 29) days, that gives a person reason to believe that anything is possible.

Even Spring.